


I wonder if we really could be more than late night lovers

by babycomebach



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Moira Rose: Matchmaker, Patrick Brewer is a good employee and son-in-law, Rose Video Branch 785, Sexting, Smut, it's not about good structure it's about Love, loose plot and timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22340851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babycomebach/pseuds/babycomebach
Summary: David is smiling.It’s a barely-there smile, the corners of his mouth twisting up almost like he resents their doing so. It’s a smile that makes Patrick think this is not the first time this has happened, that David is the kind of guy who only has to kiss someone once before he gets offers like this.(An AU in which Patrick works at Rose Video and knows David Rose without knowing his last name.)
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 66
Kudos: 347





	1. someone who can keep me warm

**Author's Note:**

> i saw a prompt on tumblr Forever ago which goes: "my boss is always telling me how perfect her son would be for me and she promises he’s coming to the next holiday party and don’t worry he’s heard all about me too and ALSO there’s this dude i slept with once a couple of months ago and sometimes he still sends me dick pics when i ask him to at 3 in the morning cause seriously dude’s got a good dick AU" 
> 
> so this is based on that & the fact that patrick's first job was at a rose video. hell yeah.
> 
> title & chapter titles from "capillary" by human bloom

It’s the cable company’s fault, really. 

All Patrick wanted to do was watch the Maple Leafs and Islanders game, which he could easily do from home. But he realized when he got home that the channel wasn’t working—and half of the other ones weren’t, either, but he was less concerned about Jewelry TV than he was this—and everyone he talked to was wholly unhelpful. He’d have to wait until the next day for someone to come and check it out. 

When he watches hockey, he wants to _watch_ hockey. He’s more in it for the thrill of the sport than he is knowing the score. He doesn’t want to be one of those guys that just checks the score on his phone after the game is over. 

That’s how he ends up at the less-popular sports bar in town (because the other one is always way too crowded, and inexplicably full of opposing fans—meaning he’d be fighting several Islanders fans to get a view of the TV). It means he gets to sit right in front of the TV and watch with unbroken attention, which is how he prefers.

Well. His attention is unbroken until someone sits down on the barstool next to him and orders a cosmopolitan on the rocks, and that answer is interesting enough to get Patrick to turn his head and look. And he’s… something. 

Cosmopolitan guy looks like he’s just stepped out of hair and makeup, which means he literally looks perfect in a way that implies he knows _exactly_ how perfect he looks. 

He’s—wearing a sweater with what looks to be two tigers embroidered on it. And the tigers are… fighting on a cloud? It’s very cool, Patrick thinks, somewhere between effortless and something that must have taken some sort of effort to pick out and purchase and wear. 

Besides. The guy ordered a cosmopolitan on the rocks at a dive bar. He’s not like anyone else here, and Patrick is enthralled. And probably too smitten for this particular moment in time. 

Cosmopolitan guy’s name is David, as he finds out after playing it totally cool and only glancing over a few times and meeting his gaze. And David continues to be every bit as unique as his first impression suggests and more. His voice is light and lilted and pleasant to listen to. It works to his advantage, because David has a _lot_ of things he wants to talk about. 

It’s not long after he introduces himself that he starts. 

“I mean, all this,” he says, waving his hands. David uses his hands very generously when he talks. It’s very endearing. “What is this? There’s literally—there’s _literally_ a taxidermy animal over there. And, like, there are at least a dozen pictures of Rangers in here. _What is this_.” 

“It’s decor, David. You know, things you hang on the walls to liven up a space. Make people feel at home. When people see taxidermy, they feel at home.” 

“Ugh! _Ew_.” 

“It’s not that bad. People are enjoying it. See, there’s—” Patrick turns in his barstool, glances and points. “That guy’s enjoying the decor.” 

The guy in question is sitting at a booth in the corner, where the walls are adorned with pictures of Rangers. He has several beer bottles on the table in front of him, and his head his resting in his arms. He’s clearly asleep. Or something. David snorts, which gives Patrick a rush of pride. 

“It’s ridiculous. This whole place is ridiculous. Do you have any idea where I’m staying?”

Patrick starts to say, “It would be a little weird if I did,” but David doesn’t notice enough to interrupt his tirade. 

“I’m staying at a fucking _Holiday Inn Express_. Have you heard of this place? It’s, like. It’s like suburban _hell_.”

“It’s a popular hotel chain for people with a budget. They’re clean, and stuff. Free breakfast. Is there something—what’s wrong with that?” 

“Um. The thread count of those sheets could not be any higher than two hundred. The whole thing smells vaguely of mothballs and bad body spray. The breakfast isn’t even that _good_.”

Patrick hums, sympathetic. “Sounds like a nightmare.” 

David continues to be charming and interesting as he talks about the hotel and the stunning lack of bed and breakfasts here and what an ideal bed and breakfast should be and the best kind of breakfast foods and how he knows this one glass artist that created a series of breakfast foods to represent femininity and gender identity and glass art and other visual art and performance art and. 

And Patrick quickly realizes he’s nowhere near as interesting or charming as David is, because David may be the most interesting person he’s ever met. He also quickly realizes that he’s very, very interested in David. David’s the kind of person who everyone wishes they could be—and wishes they could afford to be, at that. Patrick’s the kind of person who’s only ever stayed in one bed and breakfast (and David would probably describe it as less than ideal) and who has absolutely no complaints about Holiday Inn Express. 

It’s intimidating. And very, very attractive.

And David says, “Thank God I’m only here one night for a stupid family thing,” and it feels like Patrick’s being put on deadline. Mostly because David says it and then looks him up and down, appraising. 

But Patrick is a gentleman, and he’s also fairly new to this whole thing, so while he _thinks_ he knows what that means, he’s not completely sure; and this is the kind of thing he doesn’t want to chance. 

So he tells David about the game, and David feigns interest (but he does a very good job of feigning interest). David tells him more about postmodern art, and Patrick is somewhat amused but mostly impressed, and feeling like he’s getting a lesson in something he can use at dinner parties. 

“So apart from, like, watching sports in this weird, lumberjack bar, what do you… do here,” David says, his question tapering into a statement as he glances around to eye the couple in their thirties that’s started swing dancing between tables. 

“Well,” Patrick says, “I’m, uh, taking classes for a business degree, mostly. But when I’m not doing that, I help a guy out in his real estate office, and I work at the Rose Video just off the highway.”

He doesn’t want to exaggerate. But the face David makes when he says _Rose Video_ is like no face he’s ever seen before. The whole thing _scrunches_ , his eyebrows tilting in and his lips pressing together and twisting and his eyes squinting almost all the way closed. It’s like he heard the funniest joke and bit into a lemon at the same time. And Patrick laughs, because he feels fond, somehow, and like he needs to keep a catalog of David’s faces.  
  
“What? Do you also have a vendetta against DVD rental chains?” 

David scrunches a little more, shakes his head, says, “Something like that,” and then drains the rest of his slightly watery cosmopolitan in one go before ordering another one. Patrick is charmed.

They talk more, this time about books (Patrick reads mostly business books and David reads classics and popular fiction, but Patrick’s read _The Uncommon Wisdom of Oprah Winfrey: A Portrait in Her Own Words_ and David **_loves_ ** Oprah) and food (David doesn’t cook “Because nobody taught me how! And the cooking class I _tried_ to take in Paris was for advanced chefs, so” but he’s very impressed that Patrick knows how to make risotto) and movies (meaning David mostly talks about movies that they definitely don’t keep stocked in Rose Video, and Patrick is fascinated). 

And the conversation lulls. David looks at him again, and Patrick thinks those eyes could probably burn through him, and this time he definitely knows what David wants. 

Patrick doesn’t shy away. He wants it too, obviously, _fuck_ does he want it. And David leans forward. His cologne smells like the forest and oranges and campfires, and Patrick thinks he might melt. 

David kisses him warm and open, like they know each other well enough to be familiarly intimate after a half hour. He cups Patrick’s jaw, and Patrick can feel David’s four rings, and he sighs into it a little, leans so much into it he starts getting dangerously unsteady on his barstool. It lasts and lasts and lasts, and he doesn’t think he’s going to breathe again but that’s fine, that’s preferable to giving this up. So it’s David that has to pull away, taking his mouth and his hands and his cedar-citrus-smoke cologne with him. 

Patrick pulls back but-doesn’t-quite, because if his face is more than a foot away from David’s face he wouldn’t be close enough. He feels hot and breathless enough to compete with a morning hike, and he worries his eyes are comic book wide, close to popping out of his face. 

And, really, how can he be responsible for his actions after a kiss like that?

“You could—stay at my place. If you wanted.” 

What the _fuck_. What kind of psycho meets a guy, kisses him once, and invites him over right after that? David’s going to slap him. As he should. _Where did that even_ **_come from_** _, Patrick, you don’t even_ **_do this kind of thing_**. He’s feeling embarrassed, and a little gross, and David—

David is smiling. 

It’s a barely-there smile, the corners of his mouth twisting up almost like he resents their doing so. It’s a smile that makes Patrick think this is not the first time this has happened, that David is the kind of guy who only has to kiss someone once before he gets offers like this. 

Whatever regret Patrick felt switches in an instant from predatory to embarrassed. It’s like he’s twelve years old again and asking the most popular girl in school to go to the movies with him. He might as well have passed a note to David across the bar that says _do u like me? check yes or no_. 

His face is a little red, and he straightens up just to start justifying himself.

“I just thought. You know. You were complaining about the hotel, and I don’t have any roommates but my bed’s definitely clean. Plus, I have sheets with a higher thread count, so.” 

Before he can take it anywhere worse, and offer to give David the bed and take the floor—like they’re friends, or David’s some kind of charity case—David’s lips twist a little further up and he leans forward to kiss Patrick again. Probably to shut him up. 

“It’s a _Holiday Inn Express_ ,” David says, and there’s more disdain behind it than the time before. His hand his curling over the back of Patrick’s shoulder, and he drags his fingertips over Patrick’s button-up, and he _so_ is dreaming. “Like I’d willingly stay there.”

David stands up, straightens non-existent wrinkles in his sweater, and gives Patrick an expectant look. “I took a car here,” he says. So Patrick is driving. That’s fine. He’d been nursing the same bottle of beer for the last hour.

He glances once to the TV. Leafs are up a point, and it’s nearing the end of the second period. 

_It’s fine_ , he decides. _I’ll just check the scores later_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the [sweater](https://www.farfetch.com/shopping/men/kenzo-embroidered-cloud-tigers-jumper-item-14916460.aspx?storeid=11093) david's wearing
> 
> i love validation and also new friends so hmu


	2. temporary soul escape

David’s the first one out the door, and he’s already restless. Patrick is restless, too, but he’s not surprised at all that they get restless in different ways. Patrick is giddy, hands tucked into his pockets and an easy grin spread across his lips. He’d whistle, if he didn’t think that was the kind of behavior that might get David to glare at him with  _ eyebrows _ and change his mind about this. And David is walking fast, arms swinging at his sides, glancing around like he’s looking for—something? Someone? 

Patrick uses the opportunity to observe him more. He’s wearing black pants that fit his long legs very well, and he’s  _ tall _ , and the sneakers he’s wearing look more expensive than a semester’s tuition. 

David glances to the side of the door, at the brick exterior of the bar, and then lets out a muffled groan, swinging around to give Patrick a look. 

“You okay there, David?” 

David groans again, an endearing  _ ugh _ that Patrick thinks is probably supposed to explain everything. He swings his arm to the side in some grand gesture, toward—oh. There’s a group of people approaching the bar, jostling each other around and talking to each other loudly. 

“We’re not exactly alone,” David says, the whole thing coming out like a pout. 

It does not help the situation of Patrick’s grin, which is still wide and  _ fond _ , which he thinks it should not be already. 

“David. We’re on the way to my apartment.” 

So they just kiss in the car instead. Patrick’s barely shut the door before David’s leaning across the console for him. Now that David knows he’s wanted, he doesn’t hold back: he takes Patrick’s face and kisses him, head tilted and mouth open and tongue touching barely against Patrick’s teeth. Patrick’s hands find David’s waist (that is a ridiculously soft sweater) and kisses back enough that they share the console space rather than forcing David to dig his side into it in order to reach him. 

And at one point, David licks behind Patrick’s teeth and Patrick’s pretty sure he whimpers, which is all kinds of embarrassing, but it makes David grin against his mouth and into the kiss. It’s—he likes that. A lot. He isn’t sure he’s seen David grin like that since they’ve met, and it’s very nice. It’s a nice look on him. And Patrick is reminded again how much he  _ wants _ David in this impatient kind of way, and his hands start to slide up the hem of David’s sweater and the shirt he’s wearing underneath. David allows it for a moment, arching into his touch and letting out a little muffled hum. But then he’s dragging his hands off Patrick’s face, down his chest, to swat at his wrists. “Mm, I don’t think so. What is this, the high school prom?” 

Patrick is breathless, flushed, and he can’t help but laugh, withdrawing to lean back against the seat and catch his breath, which also gives David the opportunity to fix his sweater and adjust in his seat. Patrick watches him smooth out wrinkles that don’t exist, and then David turns his head. 

“Okay. You can drive now.”

Patrick’s eyebrows raise, amused, his mouth looking as close to a frown as it’s going to get with David. He probably  _ shouldn’t _ be allowed to boss Patrick around, but it’s endearing, so he’s not going to do anything to stop it. He just pulls on his seatbelt and starts to drive. 

And he learns very quickly that David is very  _ touchy _ . He rubs Patrick’s thigh during the entire drive, but not in an explicitly sexy way. It’s more reassuring, David’s broad palm running from his knee to mid-thigh while he’s distracted with something on his phone. Patrick’s not sure whether it’s meant to be some auto-pilot way of setting the mood or David genuinely wanting to touch his leg, but whatever it is works. He’s happy he knows the way home by heart, or else he might be too distracted to get there. 

His focus doesn’t exactly improve, either. 

That’s mostly because they make out at the car, up the stairs, and outside the door of Patrick’s apartment. He might usually be more efficient, but David only lets him get a few steps before he’s pressed against a wall, or David is pressed against a wall, or David’s slowly untucking his shirt and  ~~ complaining about the cotton-poly blend ~~ telling him how gorgeous he is—and then they’re kissing again. He’s thankful that there’s no one in the stairway of the building, likely because they’re still watching the game. 

David’s up against his back as he slides the key into the lock and clicks his door open, untucking the front of his shirt all the way and starting to unbutton it from the bottom up. Admittedly, it’s nice that he’s so distracted by the getting-him-undressed portion of the evening, because he’s briefly worried that David would find his apartment too… simple? too small? for his liking. Better than the hotel, though. 

“Could I, um. Get you something to drink, or…” he says, half as a tease and half because he was taught how to be a good host, and his parents would be extremely disappointed if they knew he was hooking up with guys  _ without offering them anything first _ . 

It gets David to laugh and attach his lips to Patrick’s neck, which apparently is a third option he hadn’t known about, and much more exciting than the other two. And if he doesn’t need a drink, then. Straight to bed is fine. 

By the time they make it there, Patrick’s shirt is hanging open and he's pretty sure he has a half hickey. Impressive, on David’s part. He's spun around and sat on the edge of the mattress, looking up at David who is—not disheveled at all. Seems unfair. 

“Do I get to undress you?”

David makes a face, and reaches forward to start pushing the shirt off of Patrick’s shoulders.

“You’re talkative.”

Patrick smiles, fondly. He'll take that as a compliment. 

“You’re impatient,” he says, but pulls his shirt off his arms anyway. He likes the way David’s eyes almost immediately leave his and drop down to look him over. 

He lets David stare for a moment before standing again, pulling his arms around David’s waist and sliding his hands underneath the t-shirt/sweater layers. 

“Fine,” David says, like it’s causing some insurmountable distress. “Just—be careful, please. The shirt is Tom Ford, and it cost almost three hundred dollars, so, thanks so much.”

He’s not going to let that freak him out, he’s not, so he allows himself one quick, internal  _ holy shit _ before he starts hiking David’s shirt up—

and is promptly interrupted by David, who’s squirming a little and saying “Hold on, hold on, you’ll wrinkle it,  _ you’ll wrinkle it _ —” 

So Patrick gets a very mild, very precise strip tease instead, which is not the worst alternative. 

He sits on the edge of his mattress and pulls off his shoes, starts undoing his belt, and gets distracted by the way David pulls his sweater off, then his shirt, and  _ oh _ he has really nice shoulders and  _ oh _ he’s folding his clothes, that’s adorable. But Patrick refuses to be fully dressed when David’s not, so he alternates between openly staring and getting himself undressed. 

And then David is moving toward him again, naked and half-hard and graceful in ways he’s never seen another human be. Patrick is unfairly entranced. 

David straddles his lap and kisses like he means it, like he’s going somewhere and Patrick needs to keep up. So he does, until he’s breathless and David’s fingers are dragging over his shoulders and he all but gasps out, “Can I blow you?”

David blinks, surprised. His hands still. “Um. Okay. If that’s what you… sure. Yes.”

So they shift and roll again until David’s on his back and propped against the pillows, so Patrick can kiss him and his sculpted jaw, his neck, his collarbone. He takes his time, which David doesn’t like; he can tell because David will occasionally squeeze at his shoulders, or whine, or arch up and press his dick into Patrick’s stomach. Not that it deters him all that much. 

He bites at David’s hipbone, presses his tongue into a little divot there, and David arches and sighs and scratches his shoulders and says “Patrick, are you—could you just—” and Patrick grins, presses one more kiss to his hip, says “Oh, this? Sure,” and takes the head of David’s dick into his mouth. 

David sighs properly this time, like he’s breathing for the first time in minutes, and Patrick likes it a lot. So he hums and slides down, takes as much of David in as he can comfortably manage, and wraps his hand around the rest. He could try to be more impressive, but he’d rather go tried and true than end up horribly embarrassing himself in front of somebody this attractive. 

Not that David is complaining. He’s doing whatever the opposite is, holding Patrick’s skull delicately and biting his lip—as much as Patrick can tell, when he chances a look up—and letting out these frankly dreamy sighs. So Patrick carries on, sliding his mouth up to suck devotedly at David’s head and back down. He rubs at David’s thigh with his free hand and slides it between his legs to press at his balls and David starts, grabbing at Patrick’s shoulders to pull him up again and opening the floodgates of everything he wanted to say, apparently: “Fuck you can’t just  _ do that _ , it’s like you don’t want me to have any stamina at all, are you kidding me, do you know how long it’s been since someone’s given me head  _ seriously _ , it’s like you want me to fall apart  _ right here _ ,” and Patrick just grins and kisses him, hard. 

David manages to get a hand between them to wrap around Patrick, and Patrick’s legs fall open to bracket his hips fully while he drags his hands through David’s hair. 

“Your thighs,” David says, and Patrick pulls back with a little  _ hm? _ , plenty dazed and confused. “I want them.” Patrick blinks. David’s eyes are really dark, and it’s gorgeous; David is shaking his head a little like he knows he’s not getting his point across. “I want to fuck your thighs,” he says, and Patrick thinks  _ oh _ and his stomach pools with heat. “You have very nice thighs.”

Now Patrick feels speechless, so he just nods and kisses David again, and David has to interrupt again to ask “You do have lube, yes?” And Patrick nods, yes, he does have lube, he can get that for them, and he pries himself away from David to drag open the top drawer of his bedside table and get the lube. David hums when he gets it, and is quick to work popping open the cap, squeezing some onto his fingers. Patrick regrets not doing it himself when David hisses at his own touch, but. Next time. Or something.

“On your side, please,” he says, with that lips-pressed-together attractive smile, so Patrick rolls to his side; and when David slots against him again, Patrick’s legs open enough for David to slide his dick in-between. Then David’s hand wraps around him and Patrick’s thighs clench together and David lets out a particularly pleased “Fuck,” against the back of his neck. 

Patrick wishes he could say he lasted for hours after that. But he doesn’t, obviously. And it’s all David’s fault. Because David is taller than him, all-encompassing, and apparently knows exactly how to get him off, twisting his wrist and tugging at just the right time, and he can feel David getting off between his legs, thinking  _ why didn’t I just ask him to fuck me? I have condoms, too _ and  _ this feels so good fuck this feels so good _ . Plus, David has decided it’s not worth it to stay quiet anymore, so he just talks and talks to the back of Patrick’s neck about his legs, and feeling so good, and how badly he wants to make Patrick come. 

And Patrick wants to do more, wants to make _David_ come, so he reaches down in the hopes of finding David’s dick. It presses his legs together tighter, and he blindly drags his fingers over David’s head; David says “ _ Fuck _ !” like he’s surprised by it, and comes and comes and comes, on Patrick’s legs and his fingers and the sheets. And he’s basically a goner after that. David twists and tightens his grip and keeps rocking his hips and stars explode behind his eyes as he’s revealed the mysteries of the universe, or something. 

Either way, he rocks heavy into David’s fist while he comes, and David works him through it, until Patrick feels boneless—and David must feel the same, because he’s rolling away and collapsing into the mattress. 

“Give me your phone,” David says, at some point not too long after that; he’s still breathless and flushed and sexy, so Patrick doesn’t even question it. 

“Okay,” he says. Patrick grabs his phone from the nightstand with his clean hand, unlocks it, and hands it across the mattress. 

He works on getting his breath back while David fiddles with it, and there’s the brief click of the keypad before David hands the phone back to him with his contact saved. Just  _ David _ and that’s it, because apparently he assumes that’s enough for Patrick to recognize it’s him. (And, well. It is  _ now _ .) 

He’s giddy. Maybe David really likes him, wants to talk to him, maybe they’ll see each other again. Patrick rolls over, his phone still in hand, and it’s like David is anticipating him. He smiles, suspiciously too sweet, presses a quick kiss to the side of Patrick’s mouth, and says, “I should get going.” 

With that, David stands and walks to the bathroom (and Patrick thinks  _ what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the  _ **_fuck_ ** as he watches David’s broad shoulders and long legs) to clean himself up. Patrick does the same with a few tissues from his nightstand, and he pulls his boxers back on. 

David leaves the bathroom and dresses as methodically as he undresses. It’s mesmerizing to watch. Patrick does watch, propped on one elbow—and only thinks to say something once David’s reaching for his sneakers. 

“I thought you didn’t want to stay in your hotel room,” he says. “The scratchy sheets, and stuff? So you were staying here. I know for a fact that my sheets are better than hotel sheets.”

David does not stop tying his shoes, but he does shoot Patrick a look over his shoulder. “But your sheets are dirty now, though.”

It feels like a trap. Which means, of course, that this was the way David envisioned it from the start. And Patrick feels disappointed. Like he needs to hold himself back from becoming completely desperate. If David’s leaving, he’s leaving. So he flops back against the bed and lets David finish tying his shoes. 

Finally, he stands, and Patrick half sits up, some mixture of  _ I’m trying to be casual about this _ and _ I really, really do want you to stay _ . 

“Text me sometime,” David says, and there’s that twisted smile again— _ I know you’re going to text me. You already don’t want me to go, right? So you’ll text really soon _ . 

Then David grabs his bag, and waves no higher than his waist, and he lets himself out the door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the smut, as promised. 2,500 words of it! because i could not make them stop talking to each other beforehand. typical.
> 
> big thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments—they are my food. <3 and, of course, thank you to patrick's tree trunk thighs. we do it all for you. xoxo


	3. I think about you all the time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they flirt, and they sext. david pretends that he doesn't know who insecurity is.

**1** (day) **A** (fter) **.** **D** (avid) **. 10:35 a.m.**

* * *

**Good morning, David. How’s the Holiday Inn Express?**

**It’s Patrick, by the way.**

_oh, i could tell. you sound smug._ _how’s changing your sheets, patrick?_

**Touché.**

**Not that I didn’t have plenty of time.**

**You know, because you left so early.**

_would we call that early? it was at least midnight._

**I guarantee you it was no later than 10 p.m.**

_hmmmmm. sure, okay. still very late. not really early._

**But you told me you rarely go to bed before 1 a.m. though**

_how do you know that_

**You told me so.**

_okay, so why would you pick that one specific thing to remember then_

**I’d like to think I remember all of the things you told me.**

**2 A.** **D. 7:14 p.m.**

* * *

_okay, but like. why_

**Hi, David. Why what?**

_why would you remember all of the things that i told you?_

**Why wouldn’t I?**

_that doesn’t answer my question._

**What are you up to this evening?**

…

_finally escaped my family so, like, thank fuck for that. but i had to fly. on an airplane. so i have to engage in a very vigorous skincare routine so my skin doesn’t start shedding off in the next 5-7 days._

**Sounds just miserable.**

**Is this skincare routine more vigorous than normal?**

_it is so much more vigorous. yes. you have no idea. also, i think you’re making fun of me just a little and i don’t appreciate that_

**I would never.**

**Why don’t you give me an idea, then?**

_you’re sure?_

**I’m sure. It’ll be good to know, the next time I’m forced to air travel.**

_[image: David from the shoulders up in his bathroom mirror. His hair is wrapped in a towel, and a mud mask is in the process of drying on his face.]_

_this is step 1. like obviously the skin on my face suffers the most. you would not IMAGINE the strain my t zone is under._

**Well, you look great.**

_stop making fun of me_

**What makes you think I’m making fun of you?**

**You’re gorgeous.**

**I didn’t get to look at you nearly as much as I want to.**

_so that’s something you’d be interested in. looking at more of me._

**Of course it is.**

**Yeah. Very much so.**

_[image: David standing in front of a full mirror, fully nude, his face mask washed off. He’s clearly posing, standing just barely turned to the side so his dick is just out of sight.]_

**Yeah.**

**Wow. I mean, you’re, wow.**

**Really nice shoulders.**

**Really nice everything.**

**4 A.D. 10:44 p.m.**

* * *

_patrick!_

**Hi, David.**

**Good to know I didn’t scare you off permanently.**

_oh my god, yeah you’re terrifying_

**I can’t tell whether or not that’s a joke.**

_definitely a joke, patrick, ha, ha, ha_

**Good. I wouldn’t really consider myself a scary person.**

**I wouldn’t want you to be scared of me.**

_definitely not. um_

**Um what?**

_oh shit sorry i got distracted. sorry i’m literally higher than a kite right now or you know like a more obscure metaphor. i’ve never actually flown a kite before so i don’t really know. anyway i was wondering if you meant all of those nice things you said about like, my body or whatever_

**Kite-flying isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be.**

**Or maybe I’m just bad at kite-flying.**

**Of course I meant all those nice things I said about your body. You’re gorgeous.**

**I consider myself to be very lucky to be on the receiving end of any visual representation of you.**

_that is THE nerdiest way you could have possibly said you’re horny for my nudes but i guess i’m into it_

**Okay, David. I’m horny for your nudes. Does that make you feel better?**

_yes now can i send you come more_

_*some more fuck_

**Um. Yeah. Yeah, you could definitely do that. I would like that a lot.**

_[12 images attached]_

**Wow.**

**These are**

_very tasteful nudes, i know_

**Extremely tasteful. I don’t think I’ve never seen pictures like this.**

_really? it’s very standard boudoir, patrick, you clearly aren’t used to good quality_

**You have no idea.**

**Normally not that picky, though.**

_good thing i’m here to teach you how to have taste._

**Very good thing. Yes.**

**Am I allowed to use these?**

_for masturbation purposes? or like, to post on the internet? you probably shouldn’t post these on the internet_

_wait fuck definitely don’t post these on the internet. BOTH of my parents would see them and have equally opposite but horrifying reactions and no thank you to that_

**Definitely wasn’t planning on posting these on the internet.**

**It was more—the first thing.**

_then yes, ideally._

**Great. Yeah. So I’m just going to**

**Yep.**

_by all means. don’t let me stop you. wouldn’t mind a little something in return, either_

**[image]**

_yummy._

…

**[image]**

_thank you, patrick_

**All thanks to you, David.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. david texts in long paragraphs because one time someone mentioned his double texting habit as a negative but he still has A Lot To Say. patrick is a double texter b/c he's not aware of the social conventions.  
> 2\. thank you again for all the comments and kudos! they warm my heart, always.  
> 3\. kudos to all fic writers who publish on quick, timely schedules. could not be me. (but i already have the next chapter written so hopefully i'll get on it soon!)


	4. I need this just as much as you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> patrick is instantly a perfect son-in-law, obviously.

Rose Video, branch 785 is quiet. That’s one of the reasons Patrick likes working there so much. Sure, there are plenty of customers: families who come in and rent out eight kid-friendly movies at once, people his age that come for director’s cuts and video games, guys that feel unquestionably filthy that ask for  _ adult films _ (“Have you seen The Notebook?” he normally asks. “It’s pretty filthy.”) and the rest of the general populace of semi-rural Canada that’s still not convinced that streaming movies is  _ good for them _ . He doesn’t mind helping out, and talking to people at random intervals is good for him. 

Plus, he can take home movies overnight—so he’s seen  _ a lot _ of movies—and he gets consistent bonuses from keeping up with late fees, which is really not that difficult to do. 

So it’s a good job. Good enough that he’s kept it since he started in high school, and good enough to be the main financial support of his pending business degree. 

The thing he most appreciates is the quiet, though. Rose Video is a very frugal empire (which is probably why it’s doing so well) which means Patrick usually works his shifts alone, and when customers aren’t there he can read or think about music or work on whatever he has due for class. 

It just means, of course, that there are days when quiet doesn’t exist. 

Those days start when Mrs. Rose walks in the door and Patrick can  _ hear _ her outfit—it’s usually covered in an uncountable number of beads, or she’s wearing jewelry that must weigh several pounds, or her heels have bells on them. He’s gotten so good at recognizing her that he can be organizing a new display shelf in the back when she walks in and correctly call out, “Hey, Mrs. Rose!” without needing to turn around. 

He thinks it started as some sort of company initiative. Patrick knows that Rose Video opened over 20 branches last year, and that the one he works at is just one of hundreds. His company stock is doing very well. 

But. Habit #5 in  _ 7 Habits of Highly Effective People _ is  **Seek First to Understand, Then to Be Understood** . It’s about using empathy to understand people you’re working with (or people working under you, really, in this case) so they’ll be less likely to quit and more likely to be the kind of employees that show up early and leave late and scrupulously keep up with late fees. Sending Mrs. Rose was probably meant to be the intermediary to establish that boss/employee empathy. 

Patrick just wonders whether Mr. Rose knows that his wife struggles a little with natural empathy. It’s charming, sure—she’s very charming—but she’s not at all conventional. And the whole ordeal leaves him with questions. 

Such as: how many Rose Video branches does she actually visit? (He gets the idea that Mrs. Rose isn’t as interested in the video store business, based on several times she’d told him,  _ Oh, I just can’t imagine how you stand doing this all day, is it not just terribly  _ **_droll_ ** _? _ ) Does she always stay for hours to chat with whoever’s working? Is Patrick some sort of favorite of hers? 

Either way, he guesses it’s sort of working, considering Habit #5, because he  _ does _ sort of feel connected to the Rose family. Maybe the random details do it for him. 

There are a few main categories he uses to sort out the information Moira spews at him on any given day.

1\. The Roses are unbelievably, ridiculously rich.

Patrick would assume this would be evident, based on the state of the company and the state of Mrs. Rose’s outfits, which could in no way be replicated by someone with his income—or his parents’ income. He’s never been in such close proximity to someone who seems to luxuriate in it so much. He hears about yachts, and name-dropped celebrities, and designer clothes, and the exotic travels and endeavors of her two children. He’s not really annoyed by it or jealous of it, mostly because having money seems weirdly ingrained in her personality. 

2\. The Rose family seems to be a family that was engineered for the spotlight. 

Mrs. Rose is a semi-retired soap opera star from  _ Sunrise Bay _ , which Patrick had never heard of until he met her—but his parents had been arguably  _ too _ thrilled to hear that he frequently spoke to  _ the _ Vivien Blake. His Christmas presents (autographed headshots, which she’d been too happy to supply) the year after he met Mrs. Rose for the first time were the best they’d ever been, and haven’t been as good since. She acts like she’s still in a soap opera, constantly. It’s part of her charm.

Then there’s Alexis, the daughter, who is apparently never in North America because she’s always somewhere, getting herself into some trouble. (Patrick doesn’t actually know what trouble, or where, because he doesn’t read gossip magazines and Mrs. Rose only ever says  _ some _ where,  _ some _ trouble. It’s like even she doesn’t know where Alexis is, even though Patrick’s sure she probably does.) 

Mr. Rose seems to be the most… well,  _ normal _ , out of all of them. Patrick only met him once, at a company retreat, but he was nice and put together and humble, even. 

And then there’s David. Yes, like  _ that _ David, but Patrick knows that plenty of people are named David, and he’s not going to be the kind of guy that suffers from so much horny desperation that a very common name like  _ David _ sends him into fits of longing. 

Except for sometimes. When he’s particularly missing it. Or he’s feeling particularly horny. Or he gets a text from David in the middle of the day—usually when David is in Paris, or Rome, or Madrid, and it’s later in the evening where he is—and Patrick remembers he has this whole slew of personal, gorgeous pictures of this gorgeous, gorgeous man who he hooked up with once three months ago who he’ll probably never see in person again—

Anyway. 

3\. Mrs. Rose really, really wants to set him up with David. 

David is Mrs. Rose’s oldest child, her son, and—no offense to Alexis, he’s sure—her favorite. Patrick knows that he runs a gallery in New York, and is pansexual, and has terrible taste in romantic partners. Well. He doesn’t  _ know _ that last thing, actually, but he has to include it because it’s the majority of what he hears about David. 

It’s Thursday, and he’s organizing a display for the  _ Fast and Furious _ movies (which  _ ugh, ew, why _ , but they’re bestsellers). Mrs. Rose is loitering near the front of the store, alternating between the small loveseat with magazines in front of it and pacing back and forth in front of the new releases. She’s pacing now, her necklace  _ click-click-clicking _ with every slight movement. 

“It’s such a tragedy,” she says, and Patrick hums along, even though he’s pretty sure his humming is not necessary for her to feel heard. “The poor thing just  _ cannot _ catch a break. Oh, and I guarantee you, he’s nary too wise when it comes to choosing the partners he prefers to romp in the sheets with. It’s one then the next, and you never know what  _ sort _ they’ll be, if you know what I mean.” 

Patrick does not know what she means. 

He does fully expect what’s coming next, though. 

“It’s like I always say. Once you’ve found someone who takes your breath away, you’ll never need that inhaler again.” Nonsensical metaphor. Check. And… “If only he could experience the affection of a nice young man, such as yourself, he’d certainly understand there’s much better out there for him than what he currently subjects himself to. And he really is such a catch, if I do say so myself. Very handsome, of course.” 

What follows is normally a monologue of David’s best qualities, which include (1) more on his looks, (2) his fashion sense, (3) his humor, and a dozen other things that Patrick doesn’t really understand—like his  _ ennui _ , and his  _ spirit _ . He’s pretty sure what all this means is that David doesn’t  _ actually _ fit in with the rest of the Roses, and he has a hard time getting anyone to go out with him, so his mother is taking up the cause. It’s very sweet of her, obviously, but Patrick is wary.

It’s like this one time. When he was off with Rachel, he let a family friend set him up with their daughter (which was the first mistake) because they were  _ apparently _ perfect for each other, and because said daughter needed a “good experience” with dating. She yelled at the waitress for making eyes at her boyfriend (which he certainly was not), and talked over Patrick about herself when she asked him a question, and was generally a very bad date. So he totally, you know, respects mothers trying to set their children up with people. He just doesn’t necessarily trust it. 

Thankfully, though, he’s fairly sure the whole thing is low-stakes, because for all that Mrs. Rose is a demanding and determined individual, she also very easily distracts herself, so he never feels like he’s being  _ forced _ to take David out on a date. So he just listens to this plea every time she comes, and she  _ promises _ Patrick that her charming, handsome, et cetera son will be at the Rose Video corporate holiday party in Toronto, which  _ of course _ Patrick is invited to. And once they meet, and sparks fly, they’ll both live happily ever after. 

Or something like that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big things coming soon 👀


	5. I find it hard to believe (you could love me for what you can't see)

David has _never_ liked company parties. He’s pretty sure he never will. 

It’s all—people he doesn’t know, and people he doesn’t care to know, if the snippets of their conversation and their cocktail dresses are anything to go by. It’s gritting his teeth through conversations about his gallery that prove that _no one_ of the hundreds of people his dad considers closest to him knows _anything_ about art, and trying to hunt down the waiters with hors d'oeuvres because there’s never enough food, and feeling more so than usual that he has to impress everyone in the room. 

He doesn’t even have Alexis to hang out with, because she’s just started dating an “actor” who’s only ever been a fucking extra on Game of Thrones, and she’s telling him to do his Australian accent for literally _everyone_ in the room. It isn’t even a good Australian accent!

Whatever. Whatever.

He doesn’t need to hang out with his stupid sister all night for this to be bearable. He’s taken one Benzo, done a shot of vodka, and is nursing his second Cosmo. He knows how to make a night _bearable_ , thank you very much.

The only other hope, on a night with these specific circumstances, is that one of the guests in attendance will be the hot offspring of a Rose business acquaintance who he’s just meeting (and, preferably, knows nothing about him) or a hot, slightly older Rose business acquaintance who he’s just meeting, or an old hook-up who hasn’t spoken to him in long enough to forget what he’s like. 

David’s come to realize very quickly that the people that are here either know him too well or are people he doesn’t want to sleep with. He’s pretty sure his dad is phasing out his current events planner, which is a huge mistake, because Sophia always managed to snag some eye candy, but Justin just hasn’t realized how important hot people are for the ambiance of an event. David won’t be able to survive many more of these if this isn’t something Justin learns very soon. 

So, fine. He’ll just have two to three to four more Cosmos, and he’ll start drifting upstairs in thirty minutes, and do his skincare routine, and take a sleeping pill, and he’ll be safely shut in his room with the door locked before he does something he’ll regret or gets a headache from inhaling too much Ralph Lauren perfume. (Honestly, people should know how to pick a scent. It’s something he should mention to Justin—something to include on the invitations. He knows this place in Japan that creates rare scents that complement all other olfactory senses, so he could make several recommendations. The whole thing just feels a little _incorrect_ , as it is.) 

He’s just finished a gorgeous shrimp cocktail and is starting to feel decidedly blurry around the edges when his mother sweeps up (literally—she’s wearing this admittedly gorgeous floor-length gown that she has to hold with one hand to move, and the fabric trails out in a foot radius that would clean the marble floors if there was dust to be found) wearing a smile that David instantly doesn’t trust. He narrows his eyes.

“David Rose, my _darling_ son,” she says, and David’s eyes narrow more. “Little did you know that tonight was the night you would meet your very own handsome Prince Charming.” She doesn’t wait for David to protest before she continues. “Yes, indeed! I have arranged a suitor for you, a great feat for which you will certainly thank me for. Sweet Pat…” 

David tunes her out, partly as a second nature reflex thing, but also because this monologue could carry on for a while and he’s interested in getting this over with as soon as possible, thank you. His mother has taste, to be sure, but when in the history of sexy hookups has anyone ever enjoyed sex with some guy his mother introduced him to? Not a chance. So he’ll make small talk for a minute, or less, and smoothly back away—to carry on his original plan. 

But then she turns, and—was the guy _hiding behind her_?—says something like “Dear Patrick, my son, David Rose,” and.

Oh, _fuck_. 

“ _Oh, fuck_ ,” he murmurs into the rim of his glass, just about at the exact same time that Patrick gets wide-eyed and says “David,” like he’s in awe. 

He tips his glass back, determined to finish this drink in one go and then maybe pass out, maybe enter into a coma for three to six months that gets frequent media attention, and then wake up and delete Patrick’s number from his phone. 

In the process, he comes to the horrible realization that his dad is still hell-bent on this stupid “employee familiarization” initiative, which is why there isn’t eye candy in sight, which is why all of the colognes are clashing and the suits are ill-fitted, which is why Patrick is standing in front of him, right now. He’s going to change his last name. 

Because Patrick shouldn’t be here. Or he should, technically, but David doesn’t _want_ him to be here, since the window of time between the last time Patrick saw his dick and now is way too short. Not to mention the fact that Patrick actually looks excited to see him, here, with all of his clothes on. 

What the fuck is that about? It’s not real. It’s weird. Didn’t he learn how to express a healthy amount of disgust while encountering your one night stand in public? Weird. He’s not liking the way it’s making his insides flutter. 

It’s even worse that they’re not alone; his mother frowns and scolds him to “Behave, David,” and David forces a smile onto his face. “ _Hi_ ,” he says, sounding enough like a Moira Rose character to convince her—and only her. Patrick’s eyes are _sparkling_ , and it’s unnerving, and he looks amused as hell. David has the urge to bite his mouth, and instantly thinks better of it. It’s that kind of playful, pseudo-sexual bullshit behavior that would really make him look like some common freak. 

Anyway, thank _fuck_ that his brief compliance means his mother thinks she’s done her duty. She pats David’s shoulder—he recoils, curls his upper lip—and says “Good evening, boys,” before sweeping off again. 

Patrick watches her go, just as amused, before he turns back to David and says, “You know, I was starting to think I was never going to see you again.” 

“Well, we can’t all get what we want,” David says, finishing the last few drops of his drink. 

And Patrick laughs. It startles David enough that he actually looks up from his drink enough to meet Patrick’s eyes. His eyebrows furrow, with the instant thought that Patrick must be making fun of him. But he realizes that Patrick just thinks he’s funny, and his brow smoothes out slowly as his smile grows. It’s maybe the first genuine one of the night—so what?

It also looks like Patrick doesn’t actually believe his reaction. Like he understands that it was just the thing David had to say, for like, his sanity, or something, but in reality David is glad to see him (because at least he knows someone here now, and there’s no denying that Patrick looks the way he does, and maybe he was hoping a little bit that they might see each other again, somehow, even if it’s weird and terrible). 

He’s perfectly aware of the fact that his general self has the huge possibility of sending Patrick running, confused or pissed or disgusted. It would not be the first time. And it would be fine. There are others, beyond someone who works as a branch manager for his dad—he could have a date scheduled with Taylor Swift’s brother by the end of the week. But it’s unmistakable, the way a certain warmth curls in his stomach at the sound of Patrick’s laugh, or his huge, ridiculous eyes. So maybe he won’t try so hard to be so rude. 

Then: “Is this why you neglected to tell me your last name?”

David snorts. Patrick’s head is a little bit craned back to look at one of the smaller chandeliers. 

He puts his hand on Patrick’s forearm to bring his gaze back down, and now it’s his turn to look amused. “If you don’t read gossip magazines,” he says, his arm sliding up to Patrick’s elbow, “I’m not going to brag openly about being the technical heir of a video rental chain.” 

“Hm. Technical?” 

David makes a face. “I don’t really do math. Or corporate—stuff. Meetings are a non-negotiable no. Besides, dad won’t give it up until his dying breath. You’ve seen him.”

Patrick’s eyes are a little bit glued to David’s hand on his arm. David feels warmer. “Actually, I spend more time with Mrs. Rose.” 

David’s hand moves almost instantly to press against Patrick’s shoulder, consolingly. “Oh. I can’t imagine.” 

“Don’t sound too affronted on my behalf, David. We get along very well.”

“You don’t have to tell me about it. You’re all she talks about recently, actually. It’s—” he stops himself before he can say _annoying_. “So, sweet Pat,” he continues, and grimaces instantly at what could possibly be the most terrible nickname for who could possibly be the nicest guy he’d ever met. Patrick isn’t receptive to it, either, but shit is he polite; David only notices because of the way his brows wrinkle, and his mouth flips down a little. 

He predicts, based on his own whims and lack of impulse control, that he’s going to kiss Patrick within the next ten minutes. Sooner rather than later. 

“Mm. No, we’re not doing Pat,” he says, and shakes it off. “What, exactly, makes you so special?” 

* * *

It takes six minutes. Not that he’s counting. He probably couldn’t, anyway, thanks to the cosmopolitans. It’s his only relief that he didn’t drink enough to forget any of this. His Moira-Rose-proclaimed Prince Charming came before it was too late. 

Granted, he’s not sure he can remember Patrick’s sales pitch. Not that he needs to. David is already sure of what makes him special: it’s his eyes, and his kindness, and the fact that he gets along with his mother, and the fact that he seems to just like David for—whatever. He’ll ask, sometime.

But a waiter with half-empty glasses had come bustling past at minute three and nearly smashed them all but had only managed to knock David and Patrick both out of the way. David says, “If I have to inhale any more perfume concoctions I’m going to faint,” he says, and his hand slides down to intertwine their fingers. 

Patrick looks charmed. And David kisses him as soon as he’s ducked them into a hidden corner. 

“You know, I should take you on a tour of the house,” David says, his nose dragging against Patrick’s cheek. Patrick offers a questioning hum, and to David’s delighted ears it sounds like he’s something like _desperate_. 

“A—a tour?” He’s trying so valiantly to be respectful of whatever ridiculous thing David is hoping to suggest here. His legs shift nervously where they bracket one of David’s legs.

“A tour. Of my house. The place I grew up, Patrick.” 

“Okay. Sure. Sure, a tour. I would be honored, David.” 

David laughs. He mouths absentmindedly at the curve of Patrick’s jaw. “I’ll show you my bedroom, first.” 

“Definitely show me your bedroom first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow! it is crazy that i have not updated this in one million years! but *john mulaney voice* you know, life.
> 
> it feels so good to be writing again tho! i just have an epilogue chapter planned, so expect that very soon. and, like, tysm to all who were still leaving kudos and commenting. your faith in a WIP is astounding. i simp 4 u. <3


	6. lilacs, champagne

Rose Video, branch 785 is quiet.

Sometimes. Most of the time. 

More often than not, though, he ends up humming or singing or playing something from David’s _extensively_ curated Spotify over the store’s speakers. He likes working here just as much as he always has —

only now he prefers to come from the backroom to hear the _thump thump thump_ of designer sneakers against the side of the front counter. 

“You’re not supposed to be sitting up there, you know,” he says, smiling in the direction of the patterned carpet.

“Your taste in movies is terrible,” David says, without missing a beat. He’s crossed his legs now and is sorting through Patrick’s “to watch” pile he’s reserved for this weekend. “Patrick, there’s a _hockey documentary_ in this pile. I hope that’s what you’re going to watch when you need to fall asleep.”

“I was going to go pro,” he says, while David’s eyes roll to the ceiling and he hums around a Twizzler. “Helps me relive the good old days.”

He could scold about the Twizzlers, too, but he’s been smugly handed the Rose corporate credit card far too often to make it a necessity anymore. 

They spend plenty of afternoons like that, in the not-so-quiet. It means that Patrick starts to prefer company during his shifts, that there’s a marginal uptick in snack sales from branch 785, and that there’s a _major_ uptick in Devil Wears Prada and Confessions of a Shopaholic. Turns out it’s better to have a multifaceted panel of recommendations.

Days like today are short lived. David isn’t staying the weekend — which is why he has a larger stack and _hockey documentaries_ — because he has a _thing_ in New York this weekend, and a flight back tonight. 

This thing, he knows, isn’t a gallery opening. He’s been to New York for a handful of those. The thing has remained that because David won’t tell him what, exactly, it is. What that most likely means is that it’s some “social event” with David’s New York “friends” that will involve a new, trendy club, mild to excessive drug use, and drinks that have _infusions_ of flavors. 

David tends not to elaborate when he’s attending these types of events, still, because of the amount of times he’s called Patrick in the middle of the night to complain about how terrible they are. Patrick doesn’t mind, really. He wishes there were more people that liked David for who he is and not for the money his last name brings. David deserves that kind of love, and he doesn’t have to _settle_ how he has been. But David knows that. 

And David doesn’t really like his New York friends. He probably never has. He may not even like New York all that much.

Patrick thinks, despite David’s need for fashion and luxury and trendsetting, he doesn’t hate small towns as much as he says he does. 

Patrick thinks he won’t move to New York, even if he would — in a minute, if David asked. He thinks that David may even be considering moving here. He should be closer to his family, he sometimes says. His sister needs him, _obviously_ , he says. 

Patrick thinks it’s very sweet how much David misses all of them. 

He has an old box of Raisinets he needs to inventory, because the expiration date is approaching on several much too soon. He leaves them abandoned for a moment, and steps forward to stand between David’s legs, hands sliding up his thighs. 

“My taste in movies is just fine, actually. I’m basically a professional,” he says, smiling up at David’s mouth.

“Yeah, but it’s really, really bad, though,” David says, one hand curling through his hair. 

“Would you rather pick out some movies I should watch this weekend, so I can call you and we can talk about them?”

David nods, just a little bit smug. “Yes. Yes, that’s what I’ll be doing. Very much so.” 

It’s likely he’s going to replace the entire stack. 

Patrick kisses him first, delaying the inevitable. 

He was looking forward to watching that documentary. But this makes it more than worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> at long last, i arise! after what feels like an eon, this short and sweet little epilogue to tie things up. 
> 
> just a final THANK YOU to everyone to left kudos or comments or read at all. you guys have made this so fun and rewarding to write. 
> 
> last note: i've very recently started using [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dankneedevito) again. please do feel free to follow me/message me there if you'd like! i want very much to see more schitt's creek on my dash. <3


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